


(Thoughts on) A Waltz in Broad Daylight

by orphan_account



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Episode: s03e06 Death at the Grand, F/M, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Three scenes set after the end of "Death at the Grand". A waltz is serious, slow and close, and curiously, in this case, in broad daylight.





	(Thoughts on) A Waltz in Broad Daylight

On the one hand, Phryne was pleased to have the distraction of the Adventurer’s Club meeting this evening. 

It had been a strange few days – as it tended to be when her father was around – and the scheduled lecture on recent advances in engine design for light planes should have been a welcome diversion. Phryne’s friend and fellow aviator Opal Steves reported admirably on the results of her test flights of various aircrafts – performance was improving across the board, leading to longer flight times and less risky journeys. 

On the other hand, Phryne couldn’t seem to take her mind off an afternoon waltz. 

Mac leaned over and whispered, “Is she talking about the Lockheed now or the New Swallow?” 

“The Lockheed, I think,” Phryne answered. “I may have lost track. Since when are you so interested in airplane engines?” 

Mac shrugged. “I thought Diana was speaking on her trip to Bali tonight. It's next week.” 

The voice from the podium interrupted. “Phryne, did you have a question?” 

Phryne shook her head no while pointedly placing a finger up to her own lips as an apology for the disruption, accompanied by a wide, if somewhat insincere, smile that made a promise of better behavior forthcoming. 

Mac had a better (and more realistic) idea, leaving her own seat before Opal could move to the topic of advances in aileron construction, and urging Phryne to do the same. They ushered themselves to the adjacent wood-paneled lounge, poured two whiskeys, and settled into the leather club chairs. 

“This is why I pay the monthly dues,” Mac said, lighting a cigar. 

“Opal’s a dear,” Phryne responded. “I’m glad someone is doing the research, but I’d rather be the eventual beneficiary than along for every step of the ride.” 

Ten minutes into a fascinating tale about her third “patient” at the morgue today (murder, yes, but a properly witnessed crime of passion, no mystery), Mac determined that Phryne was paying no more attention to her description of the victim’s defensive wounds than she had been to Opal’s fine points of engine design. 

“What has he done now?” Mac asked. 

“Who?” 

“Who? Don’t play stupid, Phryne Fisher.” 

“How was I to know if you meant Jack or my father.” 

_Here we go_ , Mac thought. “I didn’t know your father was back in town.” 

Phryne recounted the events – the Grand’s murdered concierge, the discovery that her father hadn’t sailed to England, the rigged card game, the near duel, the mysterious man with a secret, violent grudge against her father – the whole sordid tale. “And now the mystery man is in hospital under armed guard, my father’s locked away in Lilydale, and Jack asked me to waltz in the middle of the afternoon.” 

“What was the last bit?” Mac asked. 

“Cec and Bert took my father to Lilydale.” 

“No, the other last bit.” 

“Jack asked me to waltz in the middle of the afternoon.” 

“Metaphorically?” 

Phryne smiled. “Literally. We danced, at Jack’s suggestion, with all of our clothes on, in the ballroom at The Grand in broad daylight. Why in the world would I say waltz if I meant sex?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“I’d say sex if I meant sex, Mac.” 

_And likely be less distracted_ , Mac thought. “This is an entirely new side of you, Phryne. I don’t entirely know what I’m dealing with.” 

“I don’t know what I’m dealing with, Mac. I think Jack is courting me.” 

Mac raised her eyebrows. 

“Again, literally. Not flirting. Not teasing. Not denying something that’s clearly been there all along but he had somehow convinced himself was out of reach.” 

_Somehow_ , Mac thought. “What did he say,” she asked instead. “When he asked you to waltz, what did he say?” 

“He asked me to waltz. And I said that my mother had lost all reason when my father waltzed her at The Grand, and then he said…. Oh…” 

“What now?” 

“Old family mystery, Mac. I think I may have figured something out.” 

“And that’s all I get of the story – your oldest friend?” 

Phryne nodded. “For now. I don't exactly know how this one ends. Finish telling me about the murder victim from this afternoon – the one with the unique defensive wounds.”

Another hour and another drink or two later, Phryne drove to City South. The light was still on in Jack’s office. She knocked softly and let herself in. 

Jack looked up from his paperwork and smiled, but didn’t say anything, or stop the movement of his pen across the report at the top of his stack. 

Phryne desperately wanted to walk over and kiss him. Instead she took her customary spot at the edge of his desk.

“Did I ever tell you that my parents eloped?” she said, suggesting through her tone and focus that this particular bit of ancient history was the most relevant piece of information she could possibly convey at ten o’clock at night, in his place of work. 

“No,” Jack said simply, putting down his pen and offering his full attention. 

“Prudence thought they weren’t well suited, as you know. Mother’s parents were also opposed, largely on Aunt P’s testimony, at least as my mother tells it. One night, my father did particularly well in a card game, bought a ring, and proposed on the spot at The Grand after a Twilight Waltz. They were married before sunrise. She was disinherited within the week.” 

“Seems rather an excess of passion for a dance as measured as the waltz,” Jack offered. 

“It _was_ decades ago. So many more passionate dances have come along since.” 

“And this changes your feelings about the waltz?” he asked, his voice quiet and even. 

“I’ve always admired the waltz. It’s seriousness. It’s closeness.” 

Phryne had now moved - or was it Jack who had moved? – perhaps they had both done so at the same time, almost imperceptibly - closer to one another. 

“I know you’re trying to tell me something, Phryne,” he said gently, his eyes never leaving hers, “but I seem to be missing a key part of the conclusion.” 

“It’s not what I’m trying to tell you, Jack. It’s what you’ve already told me. This afternoon. Over the past few weeks. I didn’t really understand then. Now I think I do.” 

She reached in closer to smooth his tie, kissed him lightly on the lips, then pulled back before either one could progress the kiss further. It wasn’t a tease. It was a signal. Her moves were measured. Passion channeled, elevated, through deliberate motion. 

Phryne stopped at the door and held his gaze again. 

“My parents should have waltzed in broad daylight, Jack.” 

Jack smiled and nodded. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, then slipped away into the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fragment of a thing that didn't wind up a longer story and got reworked here in a different format. You'll have to indulge me, especially at the end, in a literary device or two to compensate for leaving the sexual tension unresolved. (As the poets intended ;-) )
> 
> P.S. -- the "New Swallow" is an actual period aircraft, not just an apt metaphor. According to Wikipedia, it was an American built, general purpose aircraft often used for air mail. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swallow_New_Swallow>


End file.
